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Driftwood

I might admit to mind
but not to heart quite yet
that this forever littered strip
between the Tasman and Tararuas
finds a deep and driven map
within this edgy cartographer

matching, as best he can,
given lost rhythms in placing
one foot in front of another
on sand shell shingle and pumice
and pieces of driftwood, many smoothed
some still bearing the twistedness
of where they once belonged
or at least have been,

matching, as best he can
given broken rhythms,
the white grey green
of this place with that place
of golden sands and turquoise sheen
orange sun and purple mountains
and the spaces in between.


Damian Ruth